


Utilitarian

by Kathar



Series: Shameless Kilt Smut [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kilts, M/M, PWP, shameless kilt smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Clint has to go undercover in Portland, he's gonna take advantage of the situation to see how Phil likes watching him strut around in a utilikilt.</p><p>Turns out Phil really, really likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utilitarian

**Author's Note:**

> April 16 is my fic-posting anniversary, so here! Have some shameless, plotless kilt smut. (A year ago, that is a sentence I never thought I'd write.)
> 
> This was originally written for [faeleverte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte) when she was having a bad day, and I thank her mightily for the beta. It might yet grow up into a 5x1, but at the moment: Kilt. Smut.

"God bless Portland," Phil growled, and Clint found himself pushed into the wall even before the door had entirely closed. His breath huffed out of him into Phil's mouth.

 _Shit!_ Clint tried to say, though it came out more like "shrmph!" He _had_ to hold it together, at least long enough to do a cursory once-over of the safehouse (safecondo, really) to make sure it wasn't being haunted by any errant Natashas or Sitwells or other random SHIELD agents. (Or non-SHIELD agents, for that matter.)

Theoretically, those two and the rest of the team were supposed to have headed out already. The operation had wrapped up a early and in an unexpectedly violence-free fashion. Clint had miraculously managed not to break his cover as a as a teacher at a non-profit bike repair shop, despite tranqing not one but five AIM operatives masquerading as members of a coffee-roasting collective. 

Agent Barton's reward for that good work was that he had to hang out for long enough to keep up the cover for future use. This news had been delivered by Phil Coulson, the Agent in Charge, who had volunteered to stay with him. And who currently had Clint pinned to the wall.

Phil, clearly, had ulterior motives. And wandering hands.

Which was not really a problem, Clint thought. He gave up even attempting to clear the damn safehouse when Phil's hands started to ruck up the fabric about his hips.

Not a goddamn problem at all.

He used his first full breath after Phil's lips had moved on to his neck to growl out "I take it you approve of the outfit."

"You." Phil nipped at his ear, his hands still busy shaking Clint's clothing apart at the waist. "Goddamn." He pulled back long enough to wrestle his own belt open with the hand not busy at Clint's hem, "Tease." His fly came down.

"Local color, Phil. Had to fit-- oh HELL yeah-- in."

Phil just chuckled low in his throat, which was somewhat of a disappointment. Clint had been hoping for a response more along the lines of "I'll fit _something_ in, all right."

In lieu of a leer, Phil dragged his lips along Clint's jawline, leaving tiny bites to mark their passage. Clint tilted his head back and clutched his hands to Phil's shoulders and decided he was just going to let himself be ravished. 

He could forgive the lack of poor wordplay if Phil was gonna do that. But then Clint had always found bad puns weirdly sexy. 

He found almost everything about Phil weirdly sexy; it led him to do things he wouldn't normally do.

Like decide his cover persona wore utilikilts.

Well, it _was_ Portland, after all. He needed to blend in with the crowd. And if a kilt showed off just how very powerful his thighs and calves were? If it allowed him to give his A-o-C, his A-o-C who insisted that "we never have sex until the mission has wrapped, Barton, you know that," little flashes of what he was missing every now and again? Bonus.

Could Phil really blame him, if he’d had to find an innocuous way to pass along the flash drives that contained the daily surveillance video? That was all he’d been doing when he’d stepped up on that bucket and grabbed a box of parts (and drives) to pass down to Phil. So the move had happened to drape the kilt temptingly over his knee, happened to show off his ass flexing under that easily flippable fabric. Coincidence. (He’d jumped off just because it was faster, too. How was he to know the kilt would reveal quite that much thigh as he landed?)

So maybe there was a certain saunter to his walk in a kilt; his stride changed subtly with that pendulum keeping time beneath the pleats. And yes, it was necessary to pass Phil’s window-side post at a coffee shop once, twice, three times back and forth to the truck he was unloading. 

It did take some getting used to, sure, this new free-swinging thing. The breeze beneath the kilt was surprisingly exhilarating, after he stopped worrying about it snagging on everything. It _had_ snagged once, on a fence post, and had nearly revealed his ass before Phil helped him set it free. He didn’t think either of them missed just how close Phil’s hand came to Clint's bare backside as Phil tugged. Phil had nearly groped him out in public. On a fucking residential street. 

Clint didn't blame him one bit.

If it had been Clint in Phil’s place? He’d probably have had both hands under there and been grabbing hard. Agent Coulson, however, knew how to bide his time.

Time which he was clearly done biding now, because holy god holy _god, holy fucking god_ , Phil was taking advantage of the easy access to flip the kilt all the way up, leaving Clint open to the cool air on his skin. It warmed as Phil dug his fingers into the tender hollows of hips, making him buck into the pressure. As his hands moved down they left tingly spots behind them. Now, Phil was fumbling with his own-- fuck.

Oh, _fuck_.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," Clint panted, as Phil pressed in tight and began to rut against him with no more lead-up than a quick shift of his fly to free himself. He was already fully hard, and that thick insistent cock of his was driving Clint to distraction, smooth and hot as it rubbed against his own. Phil'd pressed him so tightly to the wall he could barely wriggle, could do nothing but twitch his hips against Phil's.

Clint felt more than heard his own whimper. 

"Yeah, babe, 's what you want, isn't it?" Phil’s voice came out a register lower than normal, slurred into his skin.

"God yes, please, yes." Clint groaned, and Phil ground his hips hard in response. 

"S' what you've been after this whole fucking time, isn't it?"

Clint couldn't do anything but moan in confession.

Phil was chanting "yes, fuck, yes" between panted breaths, his hands up under Clint's shirt now, moving restlessly. They pulled and pushed and pinched, adding to the desperate tension building between the two of them. His lips were against Clint's adam's apple, just resting, puffs of breath warm against his throat.

Warm teasing breath, warm hands against his-- _ohgod_ \-- his _nipples_ , that fucking amazing cock moving against his, pressing into his hips and belly with each thrust, making his knees shake. Phil's belt and trousers rubbed against his thighs, reminding him how exposed he was.

It was driving him _insane_. It was-- he was never gonna--

“Phil, babe, can't hold-- need to-- _need_ to."

"Need to what, Clint?" Phil mumbled against his neck, and crumpled the kilt up further, so he could burrow his hands back down underneath Clint's ass to crush Clint's hips against him.

"Need to come, babe. Please-- please let me-- please make me!"

Phil pulled back just long enough to give him a smoldering look before he drove forward. His tongue ended up halfway down Clint's throat as he grabbed both their cocks and began to stroke, hard and fast.

There was nothing to be done at that point but shake, and shake some more, and moan into Phil's mouth as his hands pulled, demanded Clint's climax, tore it from him in waves that spilled warmly over them both.

Midway through Clint's convulsions, Phil moaned too. His unoccupied hand spasmed then dug hard into Clint's side as he started to come. It mingled with Clint's on Clint's belly and Phil's hand. His weight as he collapsed forward drove Clint back into the wall.

Clint's vision blurred there at the end, his toes curled, and he began to slide down the wall before he was able to brace himself.

Phil, that insufferable badass, finished coming, snuffled weakly into Clint's collar for a moment, then pulled back, gave Clint a lingering kiss, and tucked himself away. He pulled out a handkerchief-- a handkerchief! who has a handkerchief anymore?-- and wiped himself off, watching his hand as he did.

Clint watched it too, panting, undone, and brainless.

"Phil?"

"Mmm?" It was the smuggest smug ever to smug, to be honest. Clint found himself laughing. Phil looked up at him, eyes twinkling, and began to laugh, too.

"Should I bring this home, then?" Clint asked him, and the contemplative look on Phil's face-- Phil's cat-satisfied face-- was breathtaking.

"Not a bad idea," Phil said at last. "Never know when easy access might come in handy."

Which was how Clint came to own at least four utilitkilts. He even managed to get Phil into one, after a while, which... was not something he could think about safely in public.

They did, indeed, come in handy.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I love your comments, they have kept me sane more times than is quite reasonable, this last year. Your kudos ditto. And if you want to talk? I love to talk, and I tumbl here: [Kathar](http://kat-har.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Douchepirate's Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900384) by [Kathar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar)




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